The Word Game Murder
by LivtheScribe
Summary: (Post Reichenbach) Sherlock is dead to the world. So he adopts a new identity and goes to live with Irene Adler, who is also supposedly dead. Things are going well until mysterious murders catch Sherlock's interest and he goes on the hunt to find out whose in charge of this murders and why. Little does Sherlock know that the truth is even worse than anyone could've imagined.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi guys! This is my first fanfic. I hope you guys like it, but make sure you review it so I can make it better!**

Chapter One

Sherlock wasn't stupid.

Well, of course he wasn't. He was a high-functioning sociopath. As far away from stupid as one can get. Nor was he average. If he was average, he would've died.

But Sherlock had planned his fall precisely. How to fall, how to land, when to jump off the hospital roof. Timing played a major part in his survival. As did the help of Molly Hooper, without whom he would be cold and dead in the ground. His plan was so good that he realized he even fooled himself when a single tear slipped down his cheek.

The tear and the emotions that followed it were strange. He felt an aching in his heart, but that didn't make sense. Why would his heart ache? Nothing extraordinary had occurred that would cause his heart to hurt. And a gaping hole was left in the pit of his stomach, which didn't make any logical sense either.

For a moment he imagined that he actually was going to die. His death didn't bother him so much as leaving John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. His friends. The only friends he'd ever had. Who'd ever accepted him.

"Watch me, John," he repeated over and over again. John's face was confused, yet even with his far less superior mind he knew something bad was going to happen.

It pained Sherlock to see John like this. His best friend had to watch him die. It was all so cruel. Something in Sherlock's chest started to ache terribly. He wasn't quite sure what the feeling was, but he knew it had something to do with love. Or the loss of it.

If Sherlock waited any longer he wouldn't do it. And he had to. He had to jump. For everyone he loved.

So, after whispering his final words to John, he felt himself falling, arms flailing. The ground rushing up faster and faster to meet him. Fear didn't cross Sherlock's mind. He had allowed himself to feel enough emotions, it was time to shut them all out again.

And then there was a crack.

Sherlock stood in the dripping rain, waiting for the door to be opened.

After his great death, he needed to visit an expert on disappearing. Someone who had fooled even him once before. Sherlock was most reluctant to see her, but there was no other option.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the great Sherlock Holmes," Irene Adler purred, leaning against the door frame with a satisfactory smile on her thin, red lips. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I would prefer to discuss it inside," Sherlock answered.

Irene stepped aside, and Sherlock crossed the threshold of The Woman's house. Despite the difference in location, the house was quite similar to her house in London. The expensive rugs, spacious rooms, winding staircase, even the same brand of black and gray wallpaper.

"This way, Mr. Holmes." She sauntered up the stairs, her hips swaying enticingly. At least, it would've been enticing to any other male besides Sherlock. A black skirt hugged her bottom and mid-thighs and an almost transparent white blouse hung off her shoulders. She was obviously expecting him and, judging from her movements and looks (swaying hips, revealing clothes, long and deliberate movements), was trying to impress him. So far it wasn't working.

Irene turned a corner and gestured into a wide room with cream colored walls, a brown shag carpet, and expensive leather couch.

"Have a seat."

"Thank you," he drawled, not really listening to Irene, but taking in every single detail of the room. He sank into the couch, which was firmer than it looked, then stared into Irene's brilliant blue eyes.

"Why are you here, Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

He cleared his throat. "I should ask the same of you. Why move to Russia of all places?" It took a few weeks to track The Woman down. She was very clever in hiding her recent activities and whereabouts. That and the fact she chose one of the most small and obscure places in Russia to reside in.

But, after interrogating her more recent clients, he found her.

She narrowed her eyes. "I think you already know the answer to that."

"Obviously business, but you came here for something more as well." Sherlock knew why of course, but he enjoyed being mysterious and withholding his deductions. He like to hear things from the person's (in this case Irene's) own mouth. And Irene knew exactly what Sherlock liked, so she played along.

"An old friend of mine is coming to visit and I knew he needed a place that was easy to disappear in."

"How did you know I was coming, Ms. Adler?"

Irene examined her nails and picked them absentmindedly. "A little friend of yours. I knew what she liked." Molly. How did Irene contact her? Even more mysterious was how Irene knew of Molly in the first place. But Sherlock supposed he shouldn't be so surprised. Irene was capable of the same things he was. Gathering information was second nature to them both. The Woman suddenly turned her attention back to Sherlock. "Why are you still alive?"

Sherlock cracked a smile, but said nothing. Some things were meant to be kept secret and this was one of them. A secret for just Molly and himself.

"Fine. Don't tell me. I guess I'll just have to use my brain and think."

"I need place to stay, Ms. Adler," Sherlock interjected.

"So I've noticed. Not many people housing a dead man, eh?"

"Precisely. And I need to know how you did it."

"Did what? Convince even the Holmes boys that I died? It was quite simple really. I-"

"Yes, yes, I know. You knew what someone liked. Was that someone Jams Moriarty?"

"Maybe." She smiled. "Or maybe not."

Sherlock scowled. "How boring. It obviously was."

"And how did you deduct that, Mr. Holmes?"

"Anyone could've deduced it. At the time you were still, shall I say _in league_ with Moriarty. Who else would you turn to? And Moriarty was capable of causing someone to disappear. His connections and ability to think proved invaluable didn't they? I also think the two of you enjoyed watching me struggle with your little 'puzzle'."

"Oh, we enjoyed it alright. But I'm afraid you are partly wrong, dear. It wasn't just Moriarty who helped me."

Sherlock sighed. He would figure out her enigma later. What did it matter now, anyways? All he needed was to disappear. Irene could help him with that. "Irene," he began slowly. "I require your-" He cleared his throat, "_help_." The word tasted like vomit in his mouth. Sherlock Holmes did not ask for help. Especially from The Woman.

Irene grinned broadly. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I'm not saying it again," Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. "You know how to disappear, which is what I require at the moment. And a place to stay. Chadan, Russia. How quaint."

Irene shrugged. "The perfect place to- _get away_."

"Indeed, Ms. Adler. And make sure not to tell anyone of my existence. It is imperative that, at least for now, I remain dead. This must remain between you, me, and Ms. Hooper." No one could know the consulting detective was alive. Sherlock had a plan and it involved pretending to be six feet underground.

But something unexpected resulted of his plan so far. He had this strange ache in his chest right where his heart was. And it was painful for him to recall memories with John, Lestrade, Molly, or Mrs. Hudson in them. Was he actually feeling sentiment?

"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." Mycroft's words echoed in his head. Maybe Mycroft was wrong and caring wasn't a disadvantage. Nor an advantage, but maybe something else that Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to call.

"Brilliant idea, by the way," Irene said, interrupting his thoughts. "having two supposedly dead people living under the same roof."

"Well you've done a remarkable job of being dead so far. Tell me, what to do they call you here? _Ledi?_"

Irene narrowed her eyes. "No, Sylvia Peterson."

"You have a new background, I presume?"

"Naturally."

A moment of silence passed between them. Nothing was said, yet, at the same time, something was. Only a language Irene And Sherlock could speak. A language that was just a few cries away from telepathy.

They stayed this way for some time, gazing at each other's features, trying to decipher one another's mysteries. Sherlock could tell by the way Irene held herself and the intricateness of her appearance that business was booming. She had obviously gained back her protection, even without her old camera phone. Of course, being dead must have some insurance as well.

But, her posture was definitely haughtier than usual. She was clearly more pleased about Sherlock asking for assistance than she let on. This bothered Sherlock. He didn't like to be dependent on others. He preferred to rely on himself and his mind, which always came through for him. People were unreliable and liars. The rare times Sherlock trusted anyone other than himself, he only confided in John or Mrs. Hudson. Never The Woman. However, this time, he had no choice. He was dead to all the people he trusted.

"You know, you should think of an alias, too, Mr. Holmes," Irene said abruptly.

"Peter Gromeier," Sherlock drawled. Did she think he was stupid? Of course he had an alias. And a background. Peter Gromeier worked as a policeman and was Sylvia was a secretary for a newspaper. Peter had proposed to Sylvia last November and they had been living together ever since. They were supposed to be married that summer in Moscow.

Sherlock knew Irene wouldn't be able to turn down an opportunity to assist the great Sherlock Holmes, so he devised a story around Sylvia's. His insurance that she would accept his asking for help? Her pride. Never in a million years would she turn down a chance like that.

"Well, I must leave you. I have some business to attend to." Irene stood graciously in her chair before winking at Sherlock, then strutting out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Sherlock spent the next few days pacing around Irene's house. He didn't glean a single morsel of information about Irene. Every area she did not wish for Sherlock to explore, she blocked off with numerous locks and booby traps.

Sherlock found this out the hard way one day when he tried to sneak into Irene's room. After picking the lock she had on the door, and figuring out the key code (which took him all of three seconds to crack), five decent sized darts shot across the door frame. One managed to stab Sherlock in the arm, immediately causing his senses to go fuzzy. Irene arrived seconds later just as Sherlock slipped into darkness.

Sherlock woke up the next day in his bed completely humiliated, woozy, and with a note taped to his chest.

He plucked the note off, then read silently, "Mr. Holmes, The next time you go snooping around my things I will have to punish you much more severely. I'll have you begging for mercy twice. And if you're bored, the bathroom has a leak. As long as you're my fiance you might as well make yourself useful. Irene Adler."

He snorted. There was no way in hell she would be able to make him beg for mercy. Even twice. And he definitely wasn't going to fix her leaky bathroom. It didn't matter that he was bored out of his mind here, either. He wouldn't do it. He wasn't some sort of loyal husband for her to order around. He was a guest. Nothing more.

Sherlock spent the rest of the week pacing the wooden halls of Irene's house. He didn't step a foot outside and he refused to do anything that might even remotely please The Woman. He ate little, slept little, but his mind was always racing. Always thinking about John, 221 B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, the cases he and John solved together, Molly, even Lestrade.

He missed those days. He had been content with his life as a consulting detective before John and he became flat mates, but after something changed in Sherlock. He realized it was okay to have friends, to care about things other than his work. John showed him that emotion didn't make him any less brilliant, it just made him more… _human_.

The seventh day that Sherlock stayed in Irene's house started out uneventful. He woke up early that morning, had a cup of tea, then began walking in circles around the parlor.

The wide, wrap-around window in the room displayed a gray, snowy day. Fine white powder fell to the ground hourly, making the town look like a picture from a children's book. Nothing unusual. Just another winter day in Chadan.

"Sherlock!" Irene called out, suddenly.

Sherlock didn't bother going to find her, even though he knew exactly where she was. It wasn't worth his time. Instead, he shouted back, "What is it?"

"You might want to take a look at this."

_What could possibly be so important?_ Sherlock wondered. He sighed, then stalked off to the kitchen where he knew Irene would be because it was 8:30. And at precisely 8:30 every day she would sit in the kitchen drinking her first cup of coffee and reading the paper.

"A murder," she said without looking up from her reading.

Sherlock grunted. A murder. How boring.

She glared at him. "I haven't finished. Two unsolved murders."

"I'm still not interested," he drawled. Murders were left open every day. This one was probably no different.

Irene shrugged. "Fine. I just thought that, seeing as how you have nothing better to do, it might catch your interest."

"Well, you were wrong." Sherlock turned on his heels and strutted back to the parlor where he resumed pacing before the window.

The murder had interested him, of course. He was bored out of his mind. But he didn't want to give Irene that satisfaction. Besides, if he began solving cases again surely someone would find out who he really was.

So Sherlock spent the rest of the day walking back and forth, dwelling on older cases he had solved. The serial suicides, the Black Lotus, the Hounds of Baskerville. And he made sure to avoid thinking about Moriarty. He was the cause of all this. Without Moriarty Sherlock would still be in 221 B Baker Street, solving cases with John.

Anger welled up inside Sherlock. A fierce loathing that couldn't be tamed. It also couldn't be satisfied. At this point, Sherlock switched off his emotions. The anger only led to sadness and Sherlock wanted nothing to do with that.

His feelings seemed to come from an outlet somewhere inside his brain. Several years ago, out of curiosity, Sherlock wanted to understand why he and Mycroft could turn off their emotions while so many others could not. Sherlock concluded that it mostly had to do with power over the brain. A sort of figurative switch in the mind controlled emotions. The switch could be flipped on and off, but many people did not discover this due to their limited minds. The Holmes boys, however, figured it out.

This switch came in handy quite often, so when the hatred for Moriarty and the sadness of "dying" became too much for Sherlock, he flipped the switch.

Later that night, when Irene was fast asleep, Sherlock snuck into the kitchen, snatched up the newspaper, and retreated back to his room. Not knowing the details of the murder was killing him. He was horribly bored. So bored, it seemed as though he might die from it. Although Sherlock knew no such thing was possible.

Propped up with velvety brown pillows in his (or rather, Irene's) fabulously soft bed, Sherlock began to read:

Unknown Murderer in Chadan

_Early yesterday morning, Steven Howard, a computer programmer working for the Russian Government, was murdered in the abandoned shoe factory on Rosa Street. Police are not allowed to release names of suspects at this time. They are not sure why Howard was murdered. Family and friends say that Howard was "[an] honest man who wouldn't do anything to harm or upset anybody."_

_Later that that night, Emmeline Rogers, a hairdresser on Rurik Street who just moved to Chadan from London, was also murdered in Rasputin Park. According to the police, no family or friends of Rogers have been contacted yet. Police are not sure if murders are connected. Both victims had no known reason to be murdered and police re positive these weren't suicides. For the time being, they are not allowed to release any more information to the public. Citizens are advised to stay on their guard until the murder is caught._

The article was brief, but revealed just enough for Sherlock to come up with five, no six ideas. But they were just that- ideas. He needed more information to be certain about anything.

Sherlock leaped up from the bed and rushed to the desktop on the oak desk directly in front of his bed. He immediately researched Steven Howard. According to his obituary, Howard was married a total of six years and had a three year old daughter named Sofia. Born in the United States, he moved to first London, then Russia because of his job. Once in the Russia, he met his wife, Sandra. Howard was a "family man, who was always loyal, honest, and fun to be around." None of his family or friends had any idea why someone would want to murder him.

_Classic_. Sherlock thought. Howard must be keeping a secret or two from his friends and family. But what? Is he a drug dealer? Prostitute? Gambler? And why does the murderer not want that secret exposed?

Next, Sherlock searched for Emmeline Rogers. Apparently, she graduated from Oxford University with a Masters degree in psychology, but decided her true passion was in cosmetics school where she became a professional hairdresser. After graduated from cosmetics college, she then returned to her birthplace, Chadan, Russia. Rogers obituary didn't include much more information about her, just a picture. She had long curly red hair, green eyes, and a very pale complexion.

So far, Howard and Rogers were not linked in any way. Except for the fact they both resided in London at same point in their lives. This detail didn't seem very important, but Sherlock knew from experience that sometimes the tiniest details made all the difference. But it didn't seem likely the murder killed Howard and Rogers, because of this. And killers always had motives. They always killed with a purpose.

Sherlock sighed. He needed more data. Meaning he would have to find relatives and friends of the victims. This was a welcome distraction from his dull life in Chadan so far. As much as Sherlock needed to stay anonymous he couldn't lay low. It just wasn't in his nature.

_Tomorrow._ Sherlock decided. _Tomorrow I'll go. _

Before going to bed, Sherlock returned the newspaper to the kitchen, placing it in the exact same spot, with each crinkle and crease aligned just right, then tip-toed back to his room. There Sherlock lay on his back, staring at the white ceiling, going over and over the details of the murder. But he couldn't come up with answers for any of his questions. Not a single one.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry I didn't update last week. School started and I was really busy. Anyways, don't forget to review my fanfic! I'd really appreciate it if you guys did! **

Chapter Three

"Good morning," Irene purred, as Sherlock entered the kitchen.

Sherlock grunted in response. He had stayed up late that night, mulling over Howard and Rogers murders, but much to his disappointment, he hadn't the slightest idea who the murderer was and why they killed seemingly innocent civilians.

"Not a good night?"

Sherlock ignored her. He didn't want to answer any of her stupid questions. She was just playing their game and this time he didn't want to participate. She already knew he was following the case, that much was obvious, and he wasn't willing to admit it to her yet.

"Oh, Sherlock. You didn't really didn't think I wouldn't find out? Sometimes you can be so…"-she bit her lip thoughtfully- "_childish_."

He proceeded to make his tea and successfully ignore Irene. It was indeed childish of him to pretend she wasn't there (even he admitted it was his hamartia), but he couldn't stand to give her any kind of satisfaction.

Fine. Ignore me. But I could help you, Sherlock. And you could be solving cases again while still pretending to be Peter Gromeier."

The idea did appeal to him and Sherlock almost said yes. Maybe returning to his work would help him forget. The only problem was that Sherlock never forgot. He only became distracted. It was because of this that Sherlock declined Irene's offer.

"No," he snapped. "I don't need your help. And I'm not interested in solving this case. I'm only _following _it."

Irene laughed coldly. "You always were a stubborn one." Then she returned to reading her newspaper.

Sherlock finished making his tea and left the kitchen to go pace in the parlor.

Today was different. Sherlock could feel it. Something about this particular day was going to be peculiar. Maybe it was because Sherlock felt like he had a purpose again. Solving cases was his life. He couldn't just vie it up. And that was exactly why he decided to go to the crime scene of both murders.

Irene had some "business" to take care of later that morning (Sherlock could tell because she had come into the kitchen earlier than usual that morning so she would have more time to get ready) so it was the perfect opportunity. All Sherlock needed was a means of transportation and a disguise…

To Sherlock, Peter Gromeier was a rigid businessman, who always wore a suit and tie. After doing a bit of digging, Sherlock managed to unearth a fairly old suit in one of the many closets in Irene's large house. (He didn't want to think about it was there in the first place, though.) He slicked back his hair with copious amounts of hair gel and even applied a dab of aftershave.

The disguise was not ideal, but Sherlock didn't want to risk being recognized at all. As unlikely as it seemed, someone in the rural town of Chadan might have just recently moved from London and remembered Sherlock's face from his obituary. Sherlock couldn't take that chance.

At ten o'clock sharp, Sherlock stood outside ankle deep in the snow, for the time in eight days. And it felt great.

Although Sherlock wasn't a people person he did enjoy going places and doing things. He didn't consider walking back-and-forth doing something. Now, solving cases. _That_ was true action and purpose. At least to Sherlock it was.

He whistled loudly at a cab zipping past him. They come to an abrupt stop and Sherlock climbed. The cab was a tad cramped and smelled strongly of cigarette smoke. Sherlock inhaled deeply and tried to recall the elated feeling nicotine gave him.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked in Russian.

"Rose Street," Sherlock responded likewise.

The driver shifted the gear to drive and rolled down the street.

As they were driving, Sherlock soaked in all the details about Chadan that he could. Just from the fact that many of the town's residents seemed older he could tell it was an old, dying town. Sherlock cracked his window to get a whiff of fresh air. It tasted clean, very different to London's smog-filled air. _Not many factories then_. Sherlock concluded. There were lots of narrow side streets that wound around buildings and out of sight. Many of the shops and houses were spaced pretty far apart. Sherlock deduced that not too many people lived in Chadan. This definitely made finding the murderer a lot easier.

The shoe factory was completely and utterly desolate. Even from the bottom of the hill, where the cab had stopped for Sherlock to get out. It looked so abandoned that Sherlock almost felt sorry for it. Which was absolutely ridiculous, because the factory was inanimate and didn't have feelings. All that was left of the once grand shoe factory was a blackened and charred skeleton. Wooden debris hung off the building like torn flesh. A flock of crows rose out of the factory's skeleton out of nowhere and flew away, startled by the rumble of the approaching cab.

"Fire," the cabbie said, suddenly. "That's why it was abandoned, in case you were wondering.

Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat to show he heard the man and nodded. It wasn't worth the breath to say he understood. Of course the factory had been on fire (probably a century ago). And of course that's why it was abandoned. That much was obvious even to the stupidest of people. At least Sherlock hoped so.

"How much do I owe you?" Sherlock asked.

"Fifty rubles."

Sherlock rummaged in his pocket and managed to find exactly 50 rubles. "Thank you," he said, then ducked his head as he got out of the cab. Sherlock just stood there for a few moments, his back turned to the cab that was getting farther and farther away, and let the soft snow fall onto him. It melted instantly, seeping through his coat, dampening the jacket underneath. The cold didn't bother him, though. The adrenaline rush from working on a case kept him warm.

Working gave him an elated, incredible feeling better than any drug. Of course, that was why he had turned to drugs in the past, to feel happy and excited all the time. Daily life never made him feel like that. Sherlock was addicted to action. He was addicted to the hormones secreted _while_ he was doing things. That description was probably more accurate.

After all this passed through his brilliant mind, he set off up the rather steep hill. Every meter he traversed, the clearer he could see the shoe factory. Yellow caution tape roped the entire perimeter of the factory. Six police cares flashed red and blue and more than a dozen policemen milled about the crime scene. Sherlock would have to be quick and discreet and invisible, none of these things were particularly hard for him to do.

All the policemen seemed to be gathering in front of the building and no one was inside. That Sherlock was sure of. (Six police cars meant, at the most, 24 policemen. Sherlock counted exactly 24.) There had to be a back entrance to the building. The trick was finding out where it was and remaining unknown.

When Sherlock was a hundred meters from the factory, he veered to the left and crouched slightly to hide himself from the policemen's view. Slowly and carefully, he crept up the side of the hill and around the back of the factory. As Sherlock expected, not a soul was near there. A blackened door hung from its hinges and footprints from two to three hours ago, made less visible by the freshly falling snow, congregated by the threshold. _No one has been back her for a few hours, at least._ Sherlock thought. _But they'll quickly realize I'm here. I must be fast. I'll start with the basement._ The fire burned didn't most of the above floors and Sherlock didn't think they would be able to hold much weight. And it would be stupid of the murderer to kill his victim on the first floor, so basement it was.

He gingerly stepped on one set of footprints (the lighter he stepped, the less they appeared) and slipped through the door.

The inside of the shoe factory was even more depressing than the outside. In contrast to the pure white snow falling, the factory was black as death. How could Sherlock possibly know what death looked like? To him death was living but no living. See but not seeing. Taking up space in the world but not actually doing anything. Sherlock spent the past few months dead. And his death looked black.

Sherlock shook his head, causing his black curls to fall into his eyes. As if shaking his head would make his thoughts go away. He knew it wouldn't. But he tried anyways. It helped a little, though not much.

The wood beneath Sherlock's feet was hardly wood. More like a combination of ash and debris. The ash mixed in with the snow, causing it to turn an ugly grey color. Judging by the framework of the factory, it was built in the early 1900s (tall, rectangular, and mostly made out of brick). It would've taken a very large, very hot fire to burn down the building. But overtime the bricks could've continue to crumble, making it an empty shell of a building now. Most buildings were laid out quite similarly, even in that time period, so the stairs leading to the cellar would be in the furnace room or kitchen.

Sherlock set off in that direction (to the right and down what would've been a hallway if not for the fire), his stride brisk and he's spirits high, although slightly dampened by the thought that John was not there with him.

Just as he suspected, the stairs to the basement were in the furnace room. He yanked open the door, but could see no stairs. The entire inside of the doorway was pitch black. Sherlock cursed his stupidity. Why didn't he bring a torch? After all his years in being a detective, not once did he forget to bring a torch. Suddenly, an idea popped into his head- his phone! He could use that to see by, even if it didn't work very well. And he would have to be very careful.

Sherlock retrieved his phone from his pocket, the light it emitted only illuminated the stairs a meter in front of him. Slowly and _very_ carefully, Sherlock made his way down the stairs.

At the bottom, there were piles and piles of boxes scattered about the room. The walls were made of stone and extremely cold to the touch. Slumped in one of the room's corners was a man, blood stained his shirt and a look of terror stained his face. Sherlock crouched next to the man and began examining him. Suit, black hair cut in a buzz cut, smelled of fresh paper and cologne, ring on the fourth finger of the left hand, extremely cold, and died by gun shot.

Sherlock sat back on his heels and sighed disappointedly. He was hoping for more information, but he couldn't find anything. At least, nothing more than he had learned the previous night. The bullet, which was shot at the man's heart, had been removed long ago and no other signs of the murder were visible. Not even a hair or footprint. _But if I had a torch I might've been able to find something. _Sherlock thought.

Just as Sherlock was getting up to leave, the creak of the wooden steps echoed off the stone walls. The bright yellow beam of a torch cut through the darkness like a knife.

Sherlock froze. Someone was coming and there was nowhere for Sherlock to hide. _At least _he_ was smart enough to bring a torch._ His heart began to race. He couldn't be caught. If he was, they would either put him in jail and Irene would know what he was doing or, worse, they'd discover who he really was. Although, Sherlock doubted they would it still was a possibility.

Sherlock dove behind the stairs and seconds later the man reached the bottom steps. He swung his torch from side to side. "Anyone down there?" he called. When no response came he shrugged his shoulders and proceeded to examine the late Steve Howard.

Sherlock let out a silent exhale. He was safe. For now. But he knew when it was time for him to make his departure and now was that time. However, he had to wait for the copper to go back upstairs or he would be caught for sure.

After what seemed like forever, the policeman rose from his squatting position and walked back up the stairs. Sherlock waited a few more minutes before coming out from behind the stairs. Using his phone (again) to see the steps, he raced up them, and peered over the furnace room doorway before slipping out the backdoor.

As fortune would have it, Sherlock collided right into a policeman? Both men groaned. Sherlock put his head in his hands and waited for the spinning to stop. The police officer looked up at Sherlock, still rubbing his forehead, and his eyes immediately widened.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

"An old friend of Steve's," Sherlock responded in a thick Italian accent. He had to play it safe. He couldn't reveal that he was Peter Gromeier or Sherlock Holmes, that would definitely give him away.

"No civilians allowed on the crime scene," the man said gruffly.

"I am very sorry. Steve was good friend. Had to see him one more time."

The copper narrowed his eyes. "Howard's wife didn't mention an Italian friend. Are you sure you knew, Steve?"

"Yes, yes!" He was killed by fire, no?"

"No, you dimwit! It was a gunshot!"

"And do you have any idea who fired it?" Sherlock asked, his voice returning to normal.

"No- wait a minute… Who are you?"

"No one you need to know right now."

"Boys! C'mere! We got ourselves a spy!"

_Spy?_ Sherlock scoffed. _Surely they aren't that stupid._

At that very moment, six policemen came dashing around the corner of the factory. Then Sherlock began to run.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, guys! So I'd really appreciate it if you guys started reviewing my story. With that said, I'm with holding chapter 5 until I get _at least_ 2 reviews. I know, I'm mean. But I really wanna know what you all think! **

**Chapter Four**

He slipped and slid down the snow covered hill. In fact, it seemed to Sherlock, he did more sliding than actual running. More than once he ran a little too fast and his feet shot out in front of him and he landed right on his bottom. Now Sherlock was beginning to shiver as the snow melted through his pants.

But he kept on sprinting down the hill and out onto the streets of Chadan. In front of cars and taxis; he shoved numerous pedestrians aside as he high-tailed it down the street, away from the policemen. _Luckily, not many of them are in shape. _Sherlock thought. When he was spying on the coppers from the bottom of the hill, he noticed that over half of them could stand to lose a few pounds. Another small seemingly insignificant detail, that most people would have ignored, had come to his advantage again. Proving once more his theory that small details really were very crucial.

When at last, Sherlock thought he had outdistanced the policemen he slowed to a stop. He put his hands on his knees and his hung his head beneath his chest. Sherlock sucked in air and let it out slowly.

_Now where to next?_ Sherlock asked himself. _I can't very well go to the next crime scene. The other policemen must've been alerted about me by now. _

Sherlock remained in his hunched over position for quite some time. He received many curious and annoyed glances, but he didn't care. All he cared about was finding his next course of action. He had to keep moving, moving, moving. Never stopping. The adrenaline constantly moving caused him cleared his mind, allowing him to focus on only one thing- the case. Which was better than his mind darting from thousands of different topics, that all happened to relate to the same thing. 221 B Baker Street and everyone associated with that flat.

Finally, Sherlock decided to go back to Irene's house and visit the second crime scene tomorrow. He would go there in a different disguise and use an accent this time. If he was lucky, he might even be able to find a police disguise somewhere in Irene's vast house.

For now, he would have to walk back home. He couldn't risk being identified by anyone. Even a cabbie.

Sherlock rose from squatting, straightening his shoulders and puffing his chest, and began to walk. He didn't want to go back to Irene's. Not yet. So he meandered aimlessly around Chadan, pausing to look into some of the shops or just observing the hustle and bustle of the city. The fresh air helped to clear his head a bit. Relax his mind. If that was actually possible.

He hadn't been walking for five minutes when someone shouted, "Hey you! C'mere!"

Sherlock turned his head all around, looking for where the voice had come from. Across the street, a police officer stood pointing at Sherlock. He waited for the next car to pass, then jogged over to the opposite sidewalk. Sherlock groaned. He would have to start running again. He just couldn't manage to shake these coppers off.

With long, graceful strides Sherlock ran. His heart pounding in his chest and the feeling of sandpaper in his throat. Even though Sherlock ran as hard and as fast as he could, he still couldn't out run the policeman. With each passing second, the copper got closer and closer.

The only thought running through Sherlock's mind was that he couldn't get caught. But he was also baffled at the speed of which the man ran. From first glance, he looked no more athletic than the other coppers. But Sherlock was quickly proved wrong.

And then, Sherlock felt a tug on his coat. He whipped around, realizing defeat, and came face to face with the copper.

The man wheezed, "You might as well give up now."

Sherlock nodded his head, but didn't say a word. (He too was panting like a dog.)

Both men stood on the busy sidewalk (it was lunch break, so many people were heading off to lunch), catching their breath for a few minutes. Sherlock didn't try to escape, doing so would be pointless. The copper would just catch up with him again.

"You're that guy, aren't you?" the policeman said. "The one at the crime scene on Rose Street?"

"Yes…" Sherlock drawled._ For being so athletic, he really isn't too bright._ Sherlock observed.

"We're supposed to take you in. For questioning."

"What kind of questioning?" At this point, Sherlock was just stalling for time. He needed to make his escape. And fast. He couldn't let the police man take him to the police station. Surely, Irene would find out then think she had to come to Sherlock's rescue. And that was a scenario Sherlock desperately hoped to avoid.

"Only one kind of questioning, isn't there?"

"I suppose. Say, you wouldn't happen to know anything about the second murder would you? See, the woman was my second cousin on my father's side. I came in from Biysk once I heard the news, but no one can tell me how she died."

"Poi-, hey! You're tricking me! I bet you aren't really related to her at all!"

"You are correct, but thank you for telling me how she died. That will be most helpful."

"Why do you care? Why do you care about these murders? Who are you?"

Sherlock smirked. He wasn't going to answer any of those questions. Not for now. Now he was going to leave. "I am- oh, wait. Look! I think that woman over there is being robbed!"

The policeman whipped around, exposing his holster. Sherlock grinned even wider. _The copper really is stupid._ Sherlock thought. With soft, slender fingers Sherlock grabbed the gun from its holster and aimed it at the officer's head.

"Where? I don't see-" the officer trailed off after catching sight of the gun. He gulped, brown eyes wide with fear. "Just put down the gun, sir. Put it down and we'll have no trouble."

"Oh, I will. As soon as I have your word that you'll let me go and forget you ever saw me."

"Can't do that, sir. It's against orders."

"And you value orders more than your own life?"

The officer's Adam's apple bobbed violently. "Yes, sir."

_Stupid. _Sherlock thought. _But loyal. Which makes him even more stupid._

"Alright, then. You leave me no choice." In one swift motion, Sherlock aimed the gun over his head and pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot rang out over the chatter of pedestrians, street vendors, and the rumble of engines, startling everyone. As soon as the crack sounded, Sherlock dashed down the street, running even faster than before so the officer wouldn't catch up. This time, he would be more clever. This time, he was determined not to get caught.

Sherlock hadn't really shot the police officer. He hadn't even fired a bullet. Sherlock wasn't planning to harm him at all, actually. When the copper had chosen orders over his life, Sherlock couldn't help but think of John, who did everything Sherlock had asked without hesitation. John had even watched Sherlock die. Sherlock would never kill John, and he wasn't so cruel he would kill the officer, he just needed to startle him.

In the distance, he could hear the police officer calling out, "Stop! Stop or I'll have to arrest you!"

_Not likely._ Sherlock smirked.

But all of a sudden, a police car came screaming past and the shouting of the copper stopped. It didn't seem likely to Sherlock that he had given up. _He must be needed for something. Another murder? _Sherlock slowed to a walk and glanced behind his shoulder. The police officer was bent over a police car window. The lights of the car were flashing and the siren screaming. The copper flung open the door and climbed in.

He frowned. What's going on? Sherlock thought. He furrowed his eyebrows and scrunched up his nose. Sherlock did this a lot. Unintentionally, of course. But he did it by force of habit whenever he was confused or annoyed. In this case, it was both. He was also turned between following the car or heading back to Irene's.

On one hand, if he followed the policemen, he might figure out more about the murders. And if he was lucky, the police might be going to the scene of another murder, which was the most likely thing.

He could also be discovered again if he went.

"No," Sherlock said firmly. He would _not_ get caught. Not this time. Not ever. Sherlock turned on his heels and ran as hard as he could, so as not to lose sight of the police car.

However, the most peculiar thing happened while Sherlock ran. Sitting on the stone steps of a duplex was a woman, sobbing into her hands. Sherlock didn't know what made him stop. It wasn't compassion. Or the desire to help her. For some reason, he was just inexplicably drawn to her.

He decelerated to a stop, pausing a few centimeters in front of the woman, towering over her thin frame.

"What happened?" his deep voice, growled.

"M-my daughter," she stammered. "she's- sob- dead."

It was all Sherlock could do to keep from jumping up and down with glee. Three murders! Fantastic! Something was going on and Sherlock was determined to find out what it was. So far, all he knew was that Howard had been killed by a gunshot and Rogers by poison. Sherlock didn't think a serial killer would've used different methods to kill them, but it was possible. And Sherlock definitely knew the deaths were connected. He didn't know why. He just did. "Where? How?" Sherlock asked.

The woman's head shot up (eyes bloodshot, thin and sallow face, wrinkles, no ring- conclusion: over 40 and divorced, maybe widowed) and she snapped, "Is that any of your business?"

"I'm with the police," Sherlock said, whipping out one of Lestrade's IDs out of his coat pocket. "London police. They sent me to deal with special cases and I think your daughter's death qualifies as special."

"Why?"

Before he could stop them the words tumbled out of Sherlock's mouth, "Because the death of your daughter is correlated to the past two murders."

"But, sir, she committed suicide."


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm sorry it took so long for me to update. School and life got in the way. But here's the next chapter! And I still would love comments, guys. Positive or negative. Constructive criticism is preferred over just complete negativity. Anyways, enjoy the chapter! I promise to update sooner and more consistently. **

Sherlock's haughtiness deflated like a popped balloon. "No. No, that can't be right."

The woman nodded and jaw quivered. "It's true. A handful of pills. That's what killed her."

"I need to find out where she is. Where did your daughter die?"

"Lacy. That's her name. Lacy O'brien. A young man found her on Stone Creek Bridge this morning."

"Thank you." And with that, Sherlock shot off in the direction of Stone Creek Bridge.

In his spare time (he had plenty of it), the only other thing Sherlock did besides pace was study the maps of Chadan just in case a moment like this arrived. Now, all Sherlock had to do was retreat into his mind palace and retrieve one of those maps.

_Got it!_ Sherlock thought. There it was, as clear as if an actual piece of paper was sitting in front of him, a map of Chadan. Sherlock was currently on Roden Street. He needed to make a left onto West 86th Street, then continue straight for a few blocks where he would proceed to make a right onto Goldberg Avenue. Not even a quarter mile ahead, Stone Creek Bridge should be there. That is, if Sherlock's memory proved correct, which it always did.

Sure enough, after rounding the corner onto Goldberg Avenue (the avenue was sandwiched between two large brick buildings, allowing Sherlock to hide in the shadows of the walls), Stone Creek Bridge closed the gap between the wide, rushing river. The bridge was nothing to marvel at. It was old and made of stone. In fact, no cars even crossed the bridge anymore. Sherlock could tell by the lack of tire tracks in the snow. Even though, the bridge had been closed because of the murder, remnants of cars passing would've been there if the bridge was actually open to automobiles. The only likely reason it was kept standing was so runners, walkers, and bikers could get across the river without being bothered by the traffic.

Right now, however, both ends were roped off with caution tape and not a single pedestrian, or biker, was to be seen on it. Except for the cluster of police men, that is. There were lots of them. More than at Howard's crime scene. But it made sense, seeing as how the supposed "suicide" had just occurred.

There was just one problem. Sherlock couldn't get any closer to the crime scene than he was now, about 100 meters away. The police would immediately recognize him and cart him off to jail, where Irene would have to rescue him. Sherlock shuddered. That thought always gave him the chills.

Now what to do? He could wait for night to fall and the officers to leave, but that would take hours. By the time he got home, it would be past dinner and Irene would definitely know what he'd been up to.

The only other option was to drug (or knock out) a police man, steal his clothes, and masquerade as a police man. That idea was somewhat more appealing, though still not preferable. But what other choice did Sherlock have? None. The one difficulty in his plan was actually drugging the officer. Which one to drug? What would he drug him with? Would his clothes fit Sherlock? What would he do with the body?

Sherlock sighed. Sleuthing was a lot less complicated when he didn't have to do it in secret. And without John.

Suddenly, a police officer about Sherlock's height and width, began strolling in Sherlock's direction. _This is it._ Sherlock thought.

He pressed himself up against the rough brick wall of the building. Sherlock slowed his breathing down. Deep, slow breath in- hold it. One… two… three…four. Slowly exhale. Five…six...seven…eight. Again. And again.

Now lunge.

Trip legs. Dodge fall. Pin to ground with knees and elbows. Cover mouth to prevent yelling. Find Vagas nerve. Pinch. Opponent down. Drag body out of sight. This was the trickiest part. Where could he hide the body where it wouldn't be easily discovered or paralyzed from the cold? Sherlock whipped his head to the left and then to the right. The buildings on both sides of him were open. It would be a bit suspicious if Sherlock dragged a half naked man through the door.

"Dammit," Sherlock seethed. He would come so far only to be deterred by the simple matter of finding a place to store this man's unconscious body.

_This would be where John would tell me 'Timing!'. _Sherlock smiled. Sometimes he became a little too caught up in his work. Before John came along, no one told Sherlock about this. He was a sociopath, after all, and no one really hung around him much. Except for his skeleton head.

Previously, before his death, John and he had been working on his social skills. With John not near him, Sherlock could literally feel his newfound skills slipping away. The corners of his mouth fell down, breaking the grin.

_Focus on the task. _

Just when all hope seemed lost, Sherlock's gaze caught on a blanket. At first glance, it wasn't very noticeable, because it blended in with all the other rubbish piled high on the trash bin. In one fluid motion, Sherlock swept the blanket out from under a broken toaster.

Being as inconspicuous as possible, he slipped off his own clothes, donned the police man's, then dressed the copper in his clothes. Sherlock proceeded to roll the man up in the grungy blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon. He propped him up next to the garbage bin. Hopefully I won't be gone for long. Assualting a police man would make for a terrible reputation for Peter Gromeier.

Sherlock sucked air in his cheeks and let it out in a short puff. It was time to execute the rest of his plan. He strutted over to the crime scene, chest puffed out and expression serious.

"Who're you?" a scruffy middle-aged policeman called out.

"Lestrade," Sherlock answered in English, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact. "British police."

"Why the 'ell did the British send you 'ere?" The man said, switching to English, but his words were riddled with a Russian accent. He looked absolutely bewildered that any would care about Chadan at all.

"I'm here to investigate these serial killings."

"Serial killings? This is a suicide, fool!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes before he could stop himself.

The copper narrowed his eyes. "Is there something the British police are 'iding from us?

"No, sir, not the British police. The murderer is, however."

"Bull shit. How many times do I 'ave to tell you. This is not a murder!"

"Please step aside and let me do my job."

"Fine. You have five minutes. Cannot refuse the _British police_, can I?" The copper said spitefully.

Sherlock nodded and side stepped the policeman_. Two crime scenes in one day. Could it get any better!_

Other policeman mingled around the bridge, sipping coffee and chatting in hushed tones. The girl's mother must've arrived while Sherlock was getting his disguise, because now she stood hunched over, sobbing into her hands. A tall, dark man had his arm around her shoulder. Her husband, obviously. His eyes were red and glazed over, as if he was lost in thought. Or trying hard not to think at all. _Probably coming to terms with the death of his child. Most likely his only child, or only daughter. _

Sherlock crossed the distance to the bridge in several long, swift strides. A girl, no older than 18, lay sprawled on the snow covered bridge. Her lips were blue and her skin the color of paper. By her side, an orange plastic tube was empty. A prescription bottle.

Sherlock knelt beside the girl and gently placed his hands on her neck to take her pulse. (He always checked just to see if the police missed something, which was frequently the case.) He leaned against her chest. Dead. Definitely dead. Asphyxiation. Drugs tended to do that to people who overdosed. The means of the girl's death still puzzled Sherlock. Why did she overdose by the bridge of she wasn't planning on drowning or hanging herself? Why _did _she commit suicide? And how come she left no note? All of these questions pointed to a fact: it wasn't a suicide. Now Sherlock had some almost solid proof. Just a little more research…

He had some questions remaining: who killed the girl? Why here? And what were their motives?

Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers together and held them in front of his chin like he was praying. (He did this a lot while thinking.) But before he could come to any conclusions, the shouting began.


End file.
